Seize the Masquerade
by ibuberu
Summary: This is why my feelings will reach you. — drabble collection.
1. this is how the curtain falls

**Title** – Seize the Masquerade  
**Disclaimer **– Kimi ni Todoke isn't owned by Ibuberu.  
**Author Notes** – A collection of ten varying pairs, because there is more to KnT than Kazehaya and Kuronuma. But of course, I'll start off with a stereotypical bang because they are the cutest couple in the manga. And imma screw them over with this, hurr.

* * *

_**1. **_  
**Characters/Pairings** – Shota, Sawako (KazeSawa)  
**Rating** – K+  
**Genre** – Romance, Drama

_**this is how the curtain falls**_

  
Under the trees, in the places of the canopy where the gracious sun streaked through, she stood with transparent diamonds in her eyes and a pinkish flush hovering over her dollish cheeks. Mourning over a summer that would come to pass and possibly weeping over a horde of disrespectful classmates. It was hard to tell, no one knew her that well enough. But the temptation to actually achieve _just that_ was increasingly hard to chain down. Striking images of a yesternight with starry skies and the distinct smell of wild grass were never so raw and embellished in a mind. Perhaps a hug would suffice; a kiss would be too sudden and surprising. But observing her eyes in all their haziness, even the outstretching of arms was forcibly decided against. How the mind's conscious conquered all in the end, it was puzzling and frustrating, unluckily at the same time.

Her hand was velvet soft, burning with tears and trembling with trepidation. Her pale fingertips each represented a toasty, breeze-filled day of the summer long-by, and the scent of sunflowers and daisies mingled in the nonchalant air. Her glassy eyes betrayed no emotion stronger than wrenching anguish, it was sharpened enough to pierce. The way her body quaked with release and the fashion the water sluiced down her pallid cheeks was more than enough to turn day into night. Bluebirds crooned in the trees overheard, mocking, laughing, and arrogant spectators to a scene that was no doubt something rehearsed – it fitted neatly into television soaps. Except that she continued to cry, and that only her one hand was held high in place – she cried and cried without an expectant shoulder, without a secondary hand to wipe her face dry, until all the tears were gone and she could drink cold coffee again.

Her hair was parted neatly and precisely into two stunning braids. Displaying so much within those dark, brunette curls, a sense of shy exuberance and daring bounced off her frame as she vaguely attempted to punch the front of her shoe into the plodding soccer ball. It was a new hairstyle, and oh-so refreshing in its first foray into a crowd of watchful eyes – if anyone else bothered to notice her, that was. It was sad, really, if no one else could see, because it was her way of exclaiming how she was coming out of her shell, changing ever so significantly bit by bit. Her elegant tails swayed with each sleek movement of her determined body, gleaning beauty under the boasting sun. The endearingly innocent; oddly but artistically transfixing image; surely it deserved so more than a laugh and a smile, but that was the only thing that she had received at the end of the period.

Her lips were so purely natural, with her cheeks putting the shade of fresh roses to dire shame. And her hair, _oh_, her hair was wonderfully pin-straight and akin to a veil of dark lavish. Her uniform pressed in order, and her desk all neatly set up for the lessons, model and eager in her seat. Her cascading hair framed her face perfectly, too perfectly. And the truth – as she smiled timidly straight into two brown eyes and mumbled a hushed hello – stabbed repeatedly like something too dagger-like to be just a puppy-crush. Now, how about a hug, a kiss, a confession – surely something would suffice, else, everything might get caught up and one would be late and miss the chance of a lifetime. But a mind reeled back, hesitation digging deep and pricking brown eyes.

His knuckles whitened.

He answered only just a fakely cheered _good morning_, and that was how the story prematurely ended.


	2. this is how dreams will die

_**2. **_  
**Characters/Pairings** – Chizuru, Ryu (RyuChizu)  
**Rating** – T  
**Genre** – Angst, Drama, Romance  
**Warning** – Spoilers for '_First Snow'._

_**this is how dreams will die**_

Chizuru prefers to think that she is a finely unique woman with slender legs, a fairly moderate chest size and disobedient hazel hair. She likes to imagine that she is athletic and empathetic, and that those two qualities alone can make up for her lack of brain in school. She likes to dream about the future – about growing even taller, about escaping the hell that is masquerading as high school academics and grade point averages – about holding tightly onto a boy's familiar hand.

And that is her very bane.

The air is cold and silent – metaphorical for her wincing heart. The yellow scarf her aging mother has forced her to wear is choking her dry throat, and it is almost not-so surprising that her eyes are dry as well. Perhaps she is too confused to grasp at how unrequited tears are supposed to be shed.

Chizuru tucks her knees and doesn't give a damn if some perverted ship captain sails his ship by the dock as her legs are drawn up and her damned, useless mini-skirt gathers down around her midriff. The sixteen-year old wonders why she should continue to care _– it was just a silly, childhood crush_ – as she forces the weight of reality down upon herself without pity. As if it is a cigarette butt she is stubbing into the small of her back. Only that the words are bigger – _hotter_ – in comparison to said cigarette.

The girl – a mere child, not yet a _woman_ – wheezes as a stray wind of winter brushes past her shoulders. She doctors the sea in its many ripples and calm, collected glory. It reminds her too hauntingly of Ryu, of his demeanour, of his manner and of his everything. And she can't help but recall flinging his present so rudely at him, and she bites her lip down harder. Why does it hurt as much as Tooru's rejection? She wonders vaguely before her thoughts are consumed by grief. She leans closer to the edge of the bay.

She dreams – _had dreamed_ – about marrying Tooru.

But she also dreams about destroying the composure of the sea by jumping into its embrace.

_And what would happen if she did something now?_ The increasingly addictive temptation is lacing the tip of her tongue and burning behind her eyes. Surely Sadako and Yano-chi would be well off without her consistent crying and whining and pleas for homework copying. But she can't bring herself to take that burden away from them just yet. Chizuru slaps her cheek with one hand and addresses the sea with less familiarity, inching away from the edge of the dock just as footsteps approach.

Ryu appears and squats down at her side, his cap slanted and his eyes determined underneath the bill. She doesn't know why a feeling of sparkle and relief outbreaks in her heart the moment he regards her with his irritatingly nonchalant, at the same time understanding, countenance. Chiziru laughs weakly and tells him that it was just a crush – perhaps her own folly by mixing up sisterly affection and unromance.

"I know you truly loved him."

And something dies inside.

She digs her eyes into his comforting shoulder and doesn't know what to do next. Ryu's arms are warm, strong and stubborn around her quaking back, and Chizuru suddenly feels so feminine and so short and small as she leans against his broad chest. The tears sluice heavily down her cheeks even more, as she realises that Ryu is growing up like Tooru – and that he'll leave her one day too, just like Tooru. And he'll forget her and elope with a prettier, more acceptable member of the female population, just like Tooru. She shakes her head and clenches a fistful of his running jacket as the cold, bitter snow descends and freezes her body as her cheeks burn and her voice cracks.

"Look at me," Ryu whispers deeply, his voice somewhat emotional.

But his words don't reach her.


	3. this is how wings are clipped

_**3. **_  
**Characters/Pairings** – Ume  
**Rating** – K+  
**Genre** – General, Drama, Angst

_**this is how wings are clipped**_

I have bigger, rounder eyes. Have you noticed that my tresses are bronze, _golden_ if you would care to squint with diligence? I definitely have an adorable, chime-like voice that never even borders on creepy or imposing (unlike a certain someone's). And my neatly folded skirt is fashionably shorter than hers. Most important of all, the chattering, mingling students in the hallways of the school do not shun me like the black plague; neither do they flee in laughable fear. You know why? Because I am born to be amongst a crowd of gabbing people, meant to be surrounded and showered with friendship and love – this is who I am supposed to be.

And yet, why do you elude my grasp? Do we not complement each other ?

Our eyes shine – yours more giving than mine. Our smiles match – yours is a breadth more sincere. And our hearts beat in tempo – only that yours _ka-thumps_ more so for someone else. I can't blame you for not knowing how my emotions crack when I catch your eyes wandering over to watch Sawako kick pathetically at a soccer ball. But, _hello_, I'm here, one desk away from you – within kissing distance – talking to you about a random CD (I've forgotten the title of the album) that I have lent you because I have hopes it will maintain a thread of relevance between us. (No matter how thin, the string is still _there_, and that's all that I want.)

But she has a bigger heart. And her smiles are like golden nuggets. Rare, treasured, coveted by too many. And fortunately (unfortunately) you have always been the type to listen to all arrays of voices, disregarding the elusive cuteness factor. Rubbing salt to the wound, I know that you will never judge someone based on the length of their school skirt. You're so honest and lovable and attractive like that. I can never hate you, because that's what I love about you. Don't tell me you don't feel anything when I tell you that _I like you_. Please don't.

Because I remember middle school, I remember being alone in class. I remember you coming in, and I remember myself breaking down into a fit of sobs and you comforting me in that endearing way of yours. I remember your paling, boyish cheeks and your unkempt hair – Sawako has seen neither. I am more special than her, I know more about you than her. I am the one who you will eventually fall in love with.

So I hide behind a pair of shades, until my swollen eyes heal – because I know I am built to be stronger than this. And that so what if this is an unrequited love (for the time being)? At least I am taking it with a stride of dainty feet, in my own glamorous and alluring style. And at least, if I have to give you to someone temporarily, I will just be lending you to innocent little Kuronuma Sawako. As_ yuck_ as it is to phrase in coherent words – I'd preferably choose Sawako instead of another worthless, scheming bitch. Not that I like her, and not that we're friends.

This is because it will be easy to win you back –  
whenever my heart finally starts to heal.


	4. this is how we lose it all

_**4. **_  
**Characters/Pairings** – Ayane  
**Rating** – K+  
**Genre** – General, Friendship, Angst

_**this is how we lose it all**_

The cars are incessant in the background, you think.

You think.

And relent.

The wind threading the covers of the night time is especially cruel tonight, and you relent to that as well, disregarding the commonplace of zipping up one's stylish jacket. The bitter weather may prove effective to get your mind off separate matters that have taken root. You flip open your cell phone, browsing as you scroll down the mail list, instinctively scouring for the last text message you've sent to her – the last time you two were on good terms. You know you shouldn't, you should delete all traces of her from your inbox, like you have with all the ex-boyfriends.

But then, a chill sweeps your shoulders and you remember that she hasn't texted your before – she doesn't have a cell. You surrender into the urge to smirk, storing your phone snug in the front pocket of your bronze jacket. So you won't have anything to remember your friendship by. The cookies have been long digested, and the homework she's helped you with has been long handed in to Pin to _god knows where_ – maybe the depths of the underworld. All chains, links, to her have been severed. This revelation is strangely unsettling and freeing at the same time.

The lights of the crowding city are glaring. They remind you reluctantly of the stares of the students in the stretching, judging hallways of school. You scoff under an exhale of air, and blink the blindness nonchalantly out of your adjusting eyes; the action is repetitive from the entrapment of the curriculum hours. You know if you had to choose one place to seek solace and escape from the stares of the student body, it would be in her eyes – dark, innocent, giving and never bearing any ill feelings. But now, you've only got Chizu's – red, tearful, frantic and dulling brown. It's irritatingly stupid how people believe foolish rumours spread by wagging tongues that were carelessly released from their leashes.

It's foolish to believe that she was the one who started them.

You've lost adorable pearl ear studs before, your favourite shade of lip balm, and even an ugly feathery keychain your current pestering boyfriend has forced down upon you. You've misplaced and forgotten and never looked back at anyone of your _dears_ and _sweethearts_ and _bastards_. But your legs are heavy with invisible weights sown to the soles, and your head is drowning with thoughts and blankness at the exact same time. This is not what you are used to feeling – and you're pretty sure that last you checked, you were a master at controlling your emotions and swallowing the choking tears back.

This is probably how it feels like – to lose something important.


	5. this is how jealously rises high

_**5. **_  
**Characters/Pairings** – Tooru/Haruka  
**Rating** – K+  
**Genre** – General, Drama, Romance

_**this is how jealousy rises high**_

"She seems like a nice girl," she coughed, smoothing her skirt with cold dry palms. It was a surprise to discover that the Sanada household had thought to keep the general layout of Tooru's room intact despite his constant absence. She folded her legs beneath herself and shifted closer to the edge of the quaint coffee table, the immediate area around it being the only place where there was space to sit. The rest of the floor had been taken by boxes packed with memories and mementos and pictures that she did not know.

Played no part in.

Her hand clenched a handful of skirt.

"Chi? Yeah, she's a great person, and she's grown up so much since I was last here." Tooru strolled in with two cups of warm tea in his hands. After setting the mugs on the table, he crouched next to her, his shoulder brushing her arm as he eased two boxes aside. She glanced at him shyly, noticing the fullness in his grin and the light in his eyes as he mentioned the girl with the small eyes and the sharp, cautious face. Something pricked her throat, and she couldn't bear to reply. The male raised an eyebrow and leaned towards her, beginning to lace one hand through her brown hair. Her eyes lowered sheepishly, and she wondered, absently, if he had locked the door.

"Something the matter?" Tooru asked: earnestly, kindly, lovingly and perfectly.

Everything she could ask for in a fiancé, a husband.

She tucked a bundle of hair behind her right ear.

"N-nothing," she whispered, _lied_, and felt ashamed.

"Haruka… I know you well enough to know when it's nothing, and when it's something. Don't be so stubborn." Tooru applied pressure with the hand perched on her head, rubbing her in the most affectionate, heartbreaking way. She tried to find endearment and support in his touch, and she did – she did, relaxing into his hand and falling slowly into his chest. But the nagging thought still clung desperately to the edge of her mind. Did he perfect this technique by using it on that girl in the past?

Was he a different person around her? Was there a completely different side to him she had never glimpsed before? Her heart pounded and her eyelids fluttered dangerously. She was certainly not the perfect, flawless bride to him and his dashing looks and charismatic behaviour – she was a wallflower – had barely made an impression on his brother's friends, she knew, and she found worry and fear in the fact that she knew nothing about his childhood. But they were going to get married, weren't they? And she could – should – be honest with Tooru.

"I'm just scared; would you want to be with me if we had met earlier? If, like Yoshida, I was your childhood friend – oh, I love you, Tooru. I love you, I love you, bu– "

He kissed her on the lips in a way that made her train of thought violently derail and subsequently crash right into the embrace of reality. The reality of today, tonight, now – her suddenly overwhelming future with a husband that would caress her with careful, protective hands that would never leave her was wedged tight into the gears of her mind– (because Tooru wasn't an ordinary person, he was_ perfect_).

He took her onto his lap, enveloping her with arms that suddenly seemed secure, tear-inducing, like a new home she couldn't wait to build from heady love and uncertain experience and _setbacks_. She squeaked out a lament between a kiss, berating herself for her madness. She linked her hands around his neck and felt the palpitation of his heart through their vests. She sighed, leaning so that her forehead rested on the range between his neck and shoulder, she squinted her eyes at the walls of the room. Their wedding photo would fit nicely between the one picturing his old baseball team and framed one he took with a girl-child clad in loose singlet and shorts.

Closing her eyes, she dreamed.

"If I had met you earlier, later, or this morning – I would've still fallen in love with you, Haruka."


	6. this is how roles are flipped

_**6. **_  
**Characters/Pairings** – Ume, Sawako  
**Rating** – K+  
**Genre** – General, Angst

_**this is how roles are flipped**_

Kurumi stares incredulously as those consistently annoying eyes as they are flooded with silent tears; as if the horrid girl standing before her actually understands and reads her shaking heart. Sadako should be doing anything but weeping now – she should be celebrating her well-fought victory, she should be prancing around with that ugly hair bun and whooping with glorious triumph and earned pride. But the dark-haired demon does nothing of the sort – she simply stares at with open eyes and a quivering lip.

Kurumi has endured enough to know how Sadako functions – unfortunately. And the pathetic idiot would never understand the sating feeling power, control and victory brings. She is too naive, too foolish and too innocent – oh god, why in the world does he like her. Whywhywhy?

She hisses sorely to herself and can't help it when hot tears of her own smear her faint make-up as they journey down from her narrowed eyes. Sadako panics at the scene, and her uncertainty shines through the pale shade encompassing her face. Underneath her thick bangs, her treacherous eyes display a selection of ornamental emotions – concern, fear, and most sickeningly – empathy, raw and unbridled and not piteous in any sense.

Sadako's face mimics hers as tears fall from those black eyes, and Kurumi wishes this was an act, a charade of hers. No one is meant to be this nice and this forgiving. But she can't escape the truth – that Sadako is this kind of sugary sweet person; that Kazehaya will never see the same in her, no matter how many CDs she lends to him, or how cute she pretends to be.

And Kurumi lost to this –... this mere feminine product of human compassion and weakness.

The tears double in numbers, an arsenal equipped with her humiliation raining down from her fierce eyes. Sadako reaches out a hand to clutch her wrist, and cries along with her. Her fingers are warm as they curl around her skin. The touch stings and urges her to pull at her dyed hair.

"I hate you, I hate you the most." Her voice is hoarse and her knees are weak.

The worst part of all is that she can't find it in herself to shake off this comforting hold.


	7. this is how the laughter fails

_**7. **_  
**Characters/Pairings** – Ayane, Jo, Pin  
**Rating** – K+  
**Genre** – General, Romance

**this is how the laughter fails**

You examine your freshly manicured nails and stare vacantly to the baseball field beyond the window, cringing at the glaring sunlight that filters through the window and lounges on your table. You keep the frustrations to yourself before picking up your pencil to half-heartedly copy down the equation Pin reads from the textbook he has in his hands; his feet are propped on the surface of his desk and he doesn't seem that inclined to continue.

I'm too busy staring at you to do the same. When I realise that my notebook is empty, Pin has already grown bored of teaching and is threatening us to complete the assigned homework. You don't like it, I can tell by the ferocity in your eyes at the superiority dug deep in his words. I don't know – you look scary, but pretty at the same time.

Is this what they call a young man's love?

I wouldn't know, though I've tried find it to countless times despite the disbelief of the guys.

When I approach you to ask if you can lend me your notebook to copy, you raise your eyebrow and snap at me like you usually do. Its definitely scary, and my knees tremble against your hostility. What happened to the Ayane which held my arm so tightly on Christmas day? To the Ayane that smiled and laughed quite dryly, but expressed so much interested in me – it was the first time a girl bothered to notice me. And even though tiny holes burned their way into my favourite jacket, I honestly didn't mind. I can only hope that she'll return soon – maybe in time for the school festival, that would be something to look forward to.

Sadako timidly offers to lend her notebook to me, but I state that I just want yours. Yours is special, but I don't tell you that.

"Take it, take it, I wasn't writing anything down anyway," you bite quite scathingly after a few more efforts on my part. And I do take it, I bring it back to me on my desk just so I can admire your handwriting. But when I open the book, I come to stare at pages filled with eraser dust and markings left on blank pages. I feel the indents on the paper, and realise that you've erased away all the math formulas and equations from past lessons– and I'm not smart, so I don't understand what that means.

What I do see is how you look at Pin in class, when you think no one notices. Sometimes, I'll wishfully imagine that you're using those eyes to look at me instead. But I can push the thought away, as easily as I can laugh when the guys come and grab my head and force me down into a playful (painful) huddle.

This is what a young man's love is supposed to be like, right?


End file.
